Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
His salt-and-pepper hair is pillow-matted at the back, his sleep shirt has a hole next to the collar, and his shorts are sagging. Holding the spatula like a machete, he cuts an unlikely figure, but his pancakes are second to none.
“Morning, kiddo,” he says without looking up, deftly flipping a fluffy pancake to cook its raw side.
“Morning.” I slide onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, resting my chin in my hand. The events of last night replay in my mind like a highlight reel—Shawn’s kiss, the taste of regret when I told him about Hayes, the mess I’ve gotten myself into. “You’re up early.”
“I always get up early,” he says, smirking. “You’re the one who sleeps half the day away.”
I roll my eyes, grabbing a fork from the counter. “You know you can’t sing, right? There are dead people you drew from the grave stumbling around out there, confused.”
He chuckles, sliding a plate toward me. It’s stacked high with pancakes, dripping in syrup and butter. “Critique me all you want, but I’m still the pancake champion, and my plants are thriving.”
I grin, cutting into the stack. “Thanks, Dad.”
The music breaks for a news update, but I don’t pay attention. My thoughts are a jumbled mess, and last night’s tension still clings to me, heavier with a night of sleep weighing it down. I’ve made a mess of things, driven by my desire to piece together the past and present. Although I assumed all my memories and feelings about the Draytons were crystal clear, it hurt to find them so easily validated. I guess, in my heart of hearts, I hoped that I’d colored the past darker than it was.
When the DJ returns to playing eighties music, I lower my fork. “Dad,” I say hesitantly, “I’ve been talking with the Drayton brothers again.”
He glances up, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You have?”
“Yeah. You know they play for the Icebreakers.”
The surprise in his expression melts into something softer. “That’s good, Riley. Really good.”
“It is?”
“Of course. Those boys were practically family for a while. They were good kids. I used to love watching them play. Real raw talent and dedication you don’t find that often. Shame what happened to their family, and…” He points a chunk of pancake at me. “I regretted getting involved with their mom so soon after their dad passed. At the time, I thought it might help them to have a man around the house… support, I guess. But it wasn’t right, and when we left, I felt like I’d made a tough situation so much worse.” He shakes his head and chews his food, lost in memories.
“You went to their games?”
“Oh yeah. I loved watching them. Jacob was always so fast and intense, Hayes was so serious and precise, and Shawn...” He smirks. “Well, Shawn was Shawn. Smooth as butter, on and off the ice.”
I groan. “They haven’t changed.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, and I’m grateful. Sensations flood me. Hayes’ dick pressing between my legs and Shawn’s lips on mine. The hurt at Hayes’ words and my confusion at Shawn refuting my assumptions. There’s so much to unpack.
“It’s good that you’re reconnecting,” Dad says thoughtfully. “Those boys went through a lot. Losing their dad, then dealing with their mom... Giselle wasn’t the easiest person.”
“She wasn’t.” I hesitate. “She’s remarried. They don’t speak to her.”
My statement clouds his eyes with concern, and he sets down his fork. “They deserved better from both their parents. Carl… he was a tough man to pin down. Very driven. He expected a lot from himself and a lot from his kids.”
There’s a beat of silence before Dad’s eyes brighten, and he points a syrup-sticky finger at me. “You know, there’s something I’ve been holding onto for them.”
I blink. “Holding onto?”
“Yeah.” He wipes his hands on his sleep shorts and stands, disappearing down the hallway toward the coat closet. A minute later, he returns, lugging a dusty cardboard box. He sets it down on the island with a grunt.
“What’s that?”
“After I moved in with Giselle, she went on a tear about getting rid of all Carl’s stuff. Said it was holding the family back, and it was time to move on.” He frowns. “I didn’t think it was right… erasing the man. She enjoyed the money he left behind enough. Figured one day, the boys might want to look at some of it.”
He opens the box, revealing a treasure trove of memories: pucks labeled with game dates, stacks of game tape, a few framed photos, jerseys with Drayton emblazoned across the back, and a small leather-bound journal.
I reach for the top disk, my fingers brushing dust off the label. It’s dated toward the end of their father’s career. “You kept all this?”
“I couldn’t watch it go into the trash. It’s history. Not only for the boys but for all hockey lovers.”